Reincarnation Database: And Other Short Stories

The Non Life Of Tombstones

If anyone ever told you would get rich as a writer, they're either
high as a kite, lying, or rich. And maybe all three. For me, I had given
up riches for a long time, especially after the panic attacks started
happening, and it became apparent that something was mentally wrong
beyond mere cynicism.

I had been writing ever since I was
thirteen, although back then I mostly drew sketches because I had the
dream of becoming a mangaka. But o'er time I began to neglect my drawing
after a period of self-doubt, and mostly withdrew into the world of the
written word. When you have night terrors ever night, words fly by you a
mile a minute. When you can concentrate, you get absorbed into a form
of escape that replants you back into the real world in a different way.
A world where I can pretend to be a time travallier.

But as
someone with the issues I have, I found I could do barely more than 500
words an hour, and could only write for about an hour at a time because
the UFO Cult leader I used to be friends with on an instant messenger.
For me, I wanted time for myself. I sought the draw of the wordless
page, the unwritten tomes of my inner life. A world with me and my wife,
my world, my story. But as my night terrors became more intense and
realistic I found myself withdrew into a kind of inner turmoil,
imagining genetically engineered humans gene spliced from spiders and
fixed with cyborg parts. The post apocalyptic elements became subtler
and subtler after each story, until I wrote what would eventually become
known as Historical Futurism.

I was a long wise from the
children's Cyberpunk/Urban Fantasy writer I had always wanted to me, but
never seem to manage to do to self-doubt created by my previous living
situation.

What they don't tell you about apparently writing
literary fiction, is how one fears how they may be viewed by others once
the tome is released on the web. For me, the story was about my own
issues I needed to resolve in my own inner and sensual life, an issue I
had a hard time accepting.

When I was writing it I was, as I still
am, living with a room mate that was poking fun, laughing at, and
trying to poke fun at another non-existent issue--my apparent bias
against the French. Sure I have issues about capital punishment, but she
had began to reactivate the issues long after I dropped the topic. As
this might surprise you, but conflict exhausts me.

The only one
that kept me sane was a girl o'er in France, one of the most patient
people you'll ever meet. She was able to help me with some of the
research for that book, something that would have otherwise make the
ability to finish it impossible. Not impossible, but truly difficult
without knowing Francaise. She may not speak much, her words don't waste
your time.

I always had issues with beheading, though the exact reasoning for such is manifold.

In
a world where one has kinks, one may find an inner questioning of
themselves of why it is they are how they are with something the world
hates. It was my own personal disdain for my own kinks that made me
question any place that still catered to the carnal desire of giving
head. The desire to see girls like Anna-Marie Boeglin be threatened with
(but never fulfilled thankfully), the possibly of ending at the
Guillotine.

To give her her story.

At times I'm wonder what
this girl from 1839-1840 would think of me. Well I hated myself worse.
Because it was not the thought of her in the Guillotine that broke me
the most, but the thought that in the darkness of my heart I may
actually secretly like it.

I wanted to go against myself. The fact that I saw her silhouette at night, with her holding me tight to wash away the tears.

It was worth it.

I got to see her smile.

Here
lies the tombstone, of one who never atoned. For there was nothing to
atone, nothing but death and the tombstone. Here lies the tombstone,
where all come to rest. And little papillons fill the sky like
cannibalistic moths. I have lived into many eons across many periods of
time, from the beginning of man to the millions of tombstones that
filled the surface of Earth like grains of sand. For many eons I have
wanted to be mortal, yet have obtained no such benefit.

I am death, and have always existed.

I
have watched guillotine blades drop, I have seen super computers
enhanced by clever hackers. I have seen star-ships voyage into the outer
most of limits. And mankind assumes that they are alone in the
universe. Yet there has always been me, and I have followed them
everywhere. I am an infinite coast, that carries like the universe like a
marble sinking into the sea. The specks of dust that fill my coast
other trans realities, and yet all of humanity is the same. They seek to
sever each others necks, they seek to draw the blood from their
fingertips.

Or at least that's what I imagine when I'm asleep.

Most
of the week you can find me watching tap dancing videos, listening to
melancholic piano music, and trying to avoid the occasional panic
attacks that have only become subtler and subtler for what felt like
eons. But every since I left my family, nothing has ever been the same.
And that flame I once called life felt like it was beginning to wear
out, and I was descend into the sea of my mind. I try to reach out a
hand as if to find something to hold onto, and yet there is nothing left
for me. As I recline and weep and dream along the wall of single motel
room. I never leave the house, my social anxiety wont let me.

I
used to carry around a pepper spay can, but got to the point anything
could set me off. All it would take was a father man handling his
daughter, and I would have it settled in my mind to spray the can until
they suffocate. Instead I am able to relax by the benefit of my room
mate.

And then I go home, indulge myself on anime pictures on the
net. And then at times I would choose to make a bet like a game of--well
whatever it was, as it most definitely was not Russian Roulette.
Besides, I don't want to research anymore folk outfits, thank you very
much. I would descend into the deepest puts of despair, while
paradoxically becoming completely satisfied with my own misery in myself
I have so ensnared. I have become of a toxin of myself.

I've
never rode a bike in the snow. Indeed, I have only rode one many moons
ago. Those memories fade and melt away, like rain asked to come again
another day. In my days of snow fall, in my days of snow fall snowflakes
fall into the pavement melting in the gradually warmth losing ground.
Shifting leaves, torn weaves of the Earth. How they wither in the snow
light. Goodnight daylight, goodnight morning light. Goodnight warm
months. Come again soon, as you leave for many moons. As I rest forever
in bed.

For me I seek the morrow eve, yet I wait on my couch
waiting waiting for my slumber. In the hybrid sprawl of sprawling
suburban lights, holographic advertisements. Distractions from the snow,
distractions from a world always night. I want to melt away from this
world of mine. In the world of city lights, I seek the quietness of my
mind. Unwind, rewind. Watch as my own reality distorts, and I reflect on
past and future. Or even the Past Future, or the Future's Past.

Avast
like a sailor in the world of city seas, as I scratch and wilt from my
fleas in my hair. Starlight of my mind, conflicts with natural
starlight. Fast food holographic covering the sky as artificial grains
of sand. To cold a month for Birkenstock sandals barefoot, but one for
clogs with socks, under wool lined jeans. Watch as I drown in a book of
forty thieves. Or vape vapes vaping vapes. For my life is only now, not
months ago. Watch as I wait the hours, before I must decide to go.

I've
dreamed dreamed, I've dreamed night terrors. I've had parents and
friends like holy terrors. But for now I am alone, and only have myself.
I suppose you may want a dialogue story, yet why talk to yourself.
Cliches limitless. I'm uncertain why I would want to ride a bike, I've
never rode since I was merely a tike. I was merely a tike on a bike.
Before you laugh, keep in mind I always hated heights. My mom kisses my
broken knees, and gives good nights. Goodnight memories, fading light
city lights. Goodnight everything in this world, as I say goodnight.

Every day I live like it's my last.

Avast
across the seas of infinite misery, for my life has always been a test.
Of what test, I know not. I may have once known, but since then I
forgot. Oublier, I am Oubliette. And this is yet another day, my
creeping crawling final story. I wait the hours, I completely let myself
go. I wait the snowflakes fall, and I watch them merge in all the
merged snow.

At times I wish I were in the past futures, futures
of the yesteryear. Yet as I drink my final beer, I imagine that there
was probably as reason said futures never come true. I've leave said
reason to your imagination, while I indulge in my bed to my final
indulging masturbation. Masturbation to severed things, while I read the
pages of fourty thieves. I seek these final pages, or any book I can
choose to concentrate. Not focus on the will to masturbate to princesses
losing their heads, placed on sticks.

In a world far beyond the
fall of falling snowflakes. Every day I plot my own non existence, there
are things that keep me going. Things outside of my control, for I
exist in my own constant present. Not past futures, or speculations of
what I will do, for what I will do is always shot down by those who wish
to pin me down, and become like an unwanted button on their aging
shirts since retired and tossed into the garbage dump.

I want to
have things to hump. I like dark haired women, with a lovely rump. Yet
for me my mind always goes to severed heads, and their lovely stumps.
Some my speculate on desires of for self-destruction, but it has always
been since my dreams of alien abduction. Impaled girls, impaled lives.

Come to the darkness...

Where one dines in their wives. The darkness of my meadow of gold, the meadow of the false promised life.

Sarah Rebecca Weaver

I write Splattertopia, a blend of splatterpunk and Dystopia. Below is also some Paranormal Espionage, and Semi-Fiction. I dislike comedy, so please no book recommendations in that genre.
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